


Sweetest Song

by winterwaters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 2x10 spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:57:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3274148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaters/pseuds/winterwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy looks into blue eyes he thought he’d never see again. The steel is there still. But so is fire and grit and anger.</p><p>And, impossibly: love.</p><p>---AU in which Bellamy manages to free those in Mount Weather but gets captured in the process. More focus on his rescue and thoughts in the aftermath, mentions of 2x09 & 2x10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest Song

**Author's Note:**

> I just really need Bellamy to get out of there and I have too many ideas XD and I just need him and Clarke to reunite too because that scene in 2x09 was not okay. PS wrote this before 2x10 aired, so this doesn't deal with Lincoln's issue because _god_ I can't even... anyways, hope you enjoy!

The strain in his arms has become almost a welcome pain at this point. The sharp tug of the chords binding his wrists high to the wall reminds him that he’s standing upright, and not upside down in that sick chamber. At least they haven’t thrown him in the tank again.

Bellamy wishes he could say he’s taken it all silently, but it would be a lie. At the moment he’s just glad to be alive. But he hasn’t talked. In that, he refuses to give any measure of the upper hand to the slick weasel they call Cage.

(How ironic.)

He shifts his weight to one side as best he can, trying to grant even the smallest measure of relief to his broken body. 

He expected this. He knew, when everything went to hell, that the Mountain Men would show no mercy for anyone once they were outside. And if (when) they followed them back, it would put everyone else at risk. Grounders, kids, Arkers. Octavia. _Clarke._

So he did the only thing he could. When the last of their people disappeared through the tunnel entrance behind Lincoln, Bellamy took one of Raven’s specially prepared grenades and launched it at the weak roof.

The cave-in was swift and immediate, but he didn’t have time to worry if everyone had gotten out. 

(They would. They had to.)

He was already running the other way, gun firing until the chamber clicked empty. He lost count of how many others he took out with sheer force until finally he was clubbed over the head and everything went black.

Since then, there’s been only pain.

As always, in the moments his brain can process anything but the hurt, his mind drifts to Clarke.

He hopes she’s okay. Hopes that the steel in her eyes the last time he saw her hasn’t also trapped her heart. He tells himself that when (if) they meet again, he won’t leave her side, even if she hates him for it.

But anything is better than her being in here. That, he’s not sure he could live with.

He knows his sister will be fine. She’ll be pissed, but alive. She has Lincoln, and if he knows her at all, many of the Grounders will be on her side soon, too. Her compassion is hard to resist. Maybe Clarke will remember that.

The ache in his arms has dulled into the usual quiet throb. His eyelids begin to droop, welcoming the oncoming drowsiness.

That’s when the world begins to shake.

Bellamy’s head snaps up at the boom and ensuing rumble that rolls through the floor. Another boom, and he struggles not to groan as he’s thrown against the wall. Then he hears the gunfire. It’s not a few quick pops or even some stray shots. It’s a hail of bullets. He’d know the sound of automatic rifles even in his sleep. Now he’s tugging at his restraints in frustration, desperate to know what could possibly be happening outside the thick door just a few feet away. The straps cut tightly into his wrists and ankles, likely reopening old wounds, but he barely even notices. 

Soon there’s yelling in the halls, too. Not panicked screams - these are crisp, precise orders.

The familiar sound of a key being inserted in the door lock reaches his ears, and he tenses immediately. The door swings open and a guard takes a few steps into the room, but Bellamy isn’t focused on him.

He’s staring at the pistol digging into his neck.

The pistol that currently has familiar pale fingers wrapped around it. He barely has time to wonder how the hell even her _hands_ have become familiar to him before the gun swings up and smashes into the guard’s head. He drops with a thud.

Bellamy looks into blue eyes he thought he’d never see again. The steel is there still. But so is fire and grit and anger.

And, impossibly: love.

“Bellamy,” she breathes.

Even with the chaos outside, his world narrows to the sound of her voice. Clarke hurriedly steps over the guard, tucking the gun into her waistband as she snatches the set of keys and tosses them to someone in the hall.

Then she’s in front of him, looking at him like he’s the sun that appeared after a storm.

(Doesn’t she know she’s always been the sun?)

He’s still terrified this is a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Then her hand comes up to lightly cradle his cheek, and the breath leaves him in a hurry. There’s a long cut on her collarbone and a bruise blooming darkly on her temple, both so prominent on her light skin, but she’s alive and standing in front of him and everything is suddenly so, so real. 

His forehead lowers to press against hers, and when he feels her breath on his face he thinks he might cry from relief.

“I’ve got you,” she says, and it’s a promise. Bellamy's trying to formulate a reply when his skin prickles with dread. He only has seconds before the oily voice cuts into their moment.

“Well, isn’t this sweet.”

His stomach bottoms out. Clarke spins around, but the doorway is empty. Her eyes find the small entrance opposite her, the door that nearly blends into the wall. It’s open now, revealing Cage and his eager grin. There’s a disgusting glint in his eye that makes Bellamy want to strangle him on the spot.

“We were waiting for you to show up,” he says, taking a step into the room.

Bellamy snarls, helplessly pulling at his restraints again. He’ll yank them out of the wall if he has to. Cage will never touch her. He _can’t._

But Clarke only lifts her chin and puts her body square in front of his, her arms out. Protecting him.

“I’m taking back what’s mine,” she says fiercely, and it takes Bellamy a few seconds to realize she’s talking about him.

Her hand is reaching for the gun tucked into her waistband when Cage pulls out one of his own with a slight _tsk, tsk._ Bellamy’s ears fill with buzzing. All he can see is the gun in his hands - the gun pointed directly at Clarke. He’s paralyzed by the fear and the sheer wrongness of it all.

He can’t have been reunited with her just to see her die. It’s all _wrong wrong wrong_ \--

A shot rings out. Everything in him roars until he realizes Clarke is still upright in front of him.

It’s Cage who lies on the floor, red pooling around his head in a perverse halo.

He looks up to see Octavia in the doorway, a rifle on her shoulder and raw hatred in her eyes. Then her gaze finds him, the anger becoming relief as she lets out a strangled breath. Clarke turns to him again, fumbling at her waist and producing a small knife. Kneeling, she cuts the ties at his feet. She has to go to her tiptoes to reach his wrists.

Bellamy can’t help but sag against her when his arms are free, part in relief and exhaustion, and partly because he just needs to hold her. But she’s gripping him just as tightly, arms locked around his neck as if they’ll never let go.

(Honestly, he wouldn’t mind if they didn’t.)

She’s murmuring something into his ear, but he’s so distracted by the feeling of her mouth on his skin that it takes him a minute to realize she’s repeating _I’m sorry_ over and over again.

He’s about to shush her when Octavia clears her throat. “We need to go, now,” she says firmly, though not unkindly.

Clarke slowly unwraps herself from his hold but keeps an arm around his back, adjusting his arm over her shoulder.

“Can you walk?” She asks.

“Yeah,” he says, or tries to, but all that emerges is a dry croak. He nods.

His sister moves to his other side, hugging him fiercely and quickly even as she puts his other arm around her, and then they’re slowly limping to the door and outside. Bellamy registers the many moving bodies as they turn the corner, but most are Grounders or his people. _They're all your people now._ (The voice in his head sounds suspiciously like Clarke, and it makes him smile faintly.) They create a path for the three of them to navigate, all the while closing ranks behind them, a literal shield of bodies as they escape.

When Bellamy realizes they’re heading for the tunnels, the same tunnels he blocked, he digs his heels in despite the pain it causes. Clarke stops first.

“What is it?”

He coughs as he tries to get the words out. Finally, he manages to whisper, “The tunnel. Blocked.”

“Yeah, and it’s all your fault,” his sister says sternly.

Clarke urges them forward again. “Don’t worry about that,” she tells him. “Just focus on staying upright, okay?”

He’s too tired not to do as she says. When they finally reach the spot, his jaw drops at the gaping hole in the rubble. 

“You didn’t really think we would use the front door, did you?”

He looks over to see Raven emerge from the shadows. The earlier booms begin to make sense. 

She takes in his state with one glance. “They had guards posted at every entrance except this one. Thought we wouldn’t be crazy enough to come back this way.” Her mouth lifts wryly as she looks at Clarke. “Little do they know, we’re exactly that crazy.”

Even as worn out as he is, Bellamy can see something’s changed between them. They aren’t enemies anymore, but they can’t quite be friends. Whatever they are, though, it seems to be enough for the moment.

Octavia clambers over the rubble and gives a sharp blow of her horn. Moments later, dark shapes make themselves known. The Grounders help maneuver him across the rocks until he’s to the other side. The fresh air that hits his lungs is such a beautiful thing that his head remains pressed to the dirt for a minute longer.

Someone drops to their knees beside him, cool fingers carding through his hair until he looks up.

Clarke helps him to his feet, her hand curled around his. “Let’s go home,” she says.

Three words have never sounded so sweet.

~~~~~~~~~

They carry him back on a makeshift stretcher despite his weak protests. Clarke remains by him the entire way, alternately taking one of the posts or walking alongside him. It’s a quiet journey. The sway of the cot lulls him to sleep more than once, though it’s only for a few minutes before he awakens in a panic, unable to relax until Clarke’s face appears above him.

The third time it happens, she motions for someone to take her spot before rounding to walk by his side. Her hand slides into his, squeezing in silent reassurance.

“Sleep,” she tells him, so he does.

The next time his eyes open, they’ve stopped moving. He’s still on the stretcher but it’s on the ground while the the others stop to rest. Clarke is still beside him, her hand in his as her eyes take stock of his injuries. Bellamy doesn’t like the troubled look on her face, so he tugs at her fingers until she looks over.

“I want to walk now,” he says stubbornly.

Her brows knit together (god, he missed that) and she purses her lips (he missed that too), but after a moment he swears he sees her mouth lift a little.

“Okay,” she agrees. “How about you try sitting for a minute first?”

Her arm snakes under his neck, moving to his back as she pulls him upright. Bellamy takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them again, he’s thankful nothing is spinning.

Clarke rummages in a bag and takes out a small flask of water and some food. “Eat. It’ll help with the dizziness.”

He takes slow, careful bites of the apple as she settles next to him. The water soothes his throat enough that he thinks he won’t croak the next time he opens his mouth. Neither of them say a word, but they don’t have to. It’s enough to feel the warmth of her body next to his.

They’ll have plenty of time for talking later.

When the others finally begin to stand and stretch, Clarke glances at him. “You sure?”

At his nod, she gets to her feet and holds out her hands, slowly easing him up. She’s making him lean against the tree trunk, her hands braced on his stomach, when Octavia marches up.

“What’s this?”

Clarke looks over her shoulder. “He wants to walk.”

Bellamy wonders if he’s imagining the affectionate exasperation in her voice. His sister rolls her eyes but smiles. “Of course you do.” 

He holds out an arm and she comes willingly, resting her head on his chest. “You scared us,” she mumbles. Clarke’s hands withdraw before he can catch them.

“I’ll go tell Oliver to send a couple scouts ahead of us. Keep a space ready for you.” She strides away quickly.

“She blames herself,” Octavia says quietly, and Bellamy’s eyes snap to hers. “Says it’s her fault that you were taken. That if she’d never sent you…”

The words trail off. “I blamed her too, at first. She was an easy target, and I was upset. I still don’t agree that you went in alone.” She pauses, conflicted. “But only _you_ would do something as boneheaded as blowing up a tunnel.”

It hurts to laugh, but he tries to anyways. “Is everyone-”

“They’re alive,” she reassures him.

“And the alliance?”

“Still intact. Bell…” She hesitates long enough that he nudges her. “Clarke needs you. Don’t let her push you away again. No matter how much she might try.”

He thinks about arguing but knows it would be futile. Because as much as she needs him, he needs her, too.

“I won’t,” he says finally.

Octavia holds him a little longer before easing out of his grip. “I’ll go get her,” she grins more than a little teasingly, and he’s so damn happy to see it that he ignores the implication in her words. He doesn’t realize his eyes have drifted shut until there’s a light tap on his arm.

Clarke is studying him in concern. The familiar crease in her forehead and quirk of her lips create a surge of warmth that overwhelms him with gratitude. He reaches out and taps her nose, making her blink and jump a little.

“Careful princess,” he grins, “your face might get frozen like that.”

The surprised smile that lights up her face is enough to keep him going for days. 

~~~~~~~~~

By the time he’s made it into the camp, past the numerous handshakes and inside the ship, he’s kind of wishing he hadn’t insisted on walking. His legs feel like they’re made of rubber, and only Clarke’s increasingly tight grip on his side keeps them from buckling altogether.

She guides him to a small room where a cot is already set up, a cart of supplies waiting next to it. He tries to ease onto the cot, but ends up collapsing heavily instead. Clarke pushes him to lie back, her expression back to being troubled and guilty. Bellamy wants to tell her he’ll be fine, but every time he opens his mouth all he can do is take deep, gulping breaths.

Someone shuts the door. 

The sound rings inside of him, each echo louder than the last, and panic flares in his chest when the walls begin to close in. His lungs protest as he struggles to breathe again. The air in here is stale, not unlike the tiny room in Mount Weather, and suddenly he’s leaning over and emptying what little food was in his stomach.

When the shakes won’t subside, Clarke clambers onto the cot and enfolds him in her arms. He clings to her, desperate for the memories to leave. She murmurs soothingly into his skin until he finally manages to stop shaking. The scent of her, grass and pine and _earth,_ fills his nostrils when he presses his face into the hollow where her neck and shoulder join. He sighs.

“Can I stay in a tent?” He requests quietly. She withdraws slightly to look at his face. “I just need to be outside,” he explains.

Her eyes widen, and the guilt returns in waves. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should have-” She’s trying to pull away but he won’t release her.

“One more minute.” He rests his head on her shoulder, breathing in deeply. Her hesitation lingers, but slowly her arms creep around him again.

They stay like that for much longer than a minute. 

Later, Bellamy is surrounded by grass and soil as he lies on the mat inside a tent. A light breeze drifts in through the open flap as Clarke mixes herbs and gives instructions to the people who go in and out.

It’s mostly Octavia and Miller who keep returning, seemingly having appointed themselves to be her helpers. The thought makes him smile. His sister has an endless list of Grounder remedies that have apparently been shared with her. Even Abigail Griffin drops in for a moment, taking in his weary state with quiet, sad eyes. 

He doesn’t really know what to make of that, so he stays silent.

It’s obvious that things aren’t the same with her and Clarke, whose answers come in short, clipped tones until finally Abby pats his knee and tells him it’s good to have him back before leaving. The gesture is so motherly that he has to close his eyes for a moment.

He doesn’t ask Clarke what happened. They’ll get there eventually.

For now, he watches as she mixes endless herbs, counts the swaths of fabric laying beside her, gratefully accepts a full jug of moonshine from Monty. The boy shares a quick, haunted look with Bellamy, and an awful understanding passes between them. Monty reaches out to clasp his hand before leaving.

Clarke is pretending not to watch him out of the corner of her eye. He points at the moonshine.

“I’m guessing that’s not for me to drink,” he jokes weakly.

She quirks an eyebrow, teasing, “Who said it was for you?” 

It feels good to smile again. 

Eventually he makes himself sit up as Clarke zippers the tent flap shut and readies her things. The bruise on her forehead has taken on a dark purplish hue. Bellamy brushes her hair back to get a better look, not noticing the hitch in her breath.

“When did this happen?” He asks.

“Just a day ago. I was being careless.”

She gently pulls his hand away and scoots closer. He tenses as the first damp cloth nears his face.

“It’s only water for now,” she says softly.

His eyes close with a small sigh as the cloth runs over his skin, easing off the grime and dirt and dried blood. Clarke takes her time, firm but careful as she works over his face and neck. Bellamy knows she’s cataloguing every scrape, every small hiss and grimace that escapes him.

So he grits his teeth as best he can, not wanting to add to her guilt. Knowing her as well as he does, he knows she already has enough of that to last her years.

When she finally leans back, he opens his eyes to see her setting aside the dirtied fabric. “I don’t think these need stitching. Most are healing well enough.”

He figured as much. It was only in the beginning that they went for his face. When that didn’t work, they moved on fairly quick. And even then, it was always shallow wounds. Easy to close; easy to reopen.

Clarke is reaching for his shirt when his hand closes over her wrist. “Wait.” Bellamy swallows. “You don’t have to do this.”

“What?” She tries to tug out of his grasp. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not. I mean it. You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.” Her jaw is set in a familiar stubborn gesture. “This was my fault.”

“Clarke-”

“ _I_ sent you there. _I_ said it was worth the risk.” Her forehead touches his. “I was wrong,” she says thickly. “So now I’m going to take care of you.”

When he doesn’t reply, she squeezes his hand. “Let me take care of you, Bellamy. Please.”

It’s her quiet plea that does him in. He reluctantly releases her wrist, allowing her to draw the the shirt over his head.

Her sharp intake of breath is loud in the stillness of the tent, and there’s a long moment where Bellamy is convinced it was a mistake to let her see his ruined body. 

But then, true to form, she collects herself. He watches her push the emotions aside and slip back into the skin of a healer. Slowly, methodically, she runs the cloth over his torso, gently pressing the area around his ribs and the spot on his side that burns. The occasional hum escapes as she evaluates his every reaction. 

Only the continuous blaze of her eyes gives her away. 

But her touch remains light and steady as she twists him one way and another to fully examine his torso and eventually his back. 

His skin tingles and stings everywhere the moonshine touches it. It’s not entirely unwelcome. Part of him needs to feel the burn, needs the physical reminder that this is all real. Bellamy stares at the yellow fabric of the tent, trying not to flinch whenever Clarke accidentally grazes a bruise. 

(There are a lot.) 

But even as he becomes convinced that she’s covered every inch of his upper half, her hands don’t stop running over his skin. Soon the brush of her fingers begins to feel too much like an apology for his liking. 

When he turns abruptly to tell her there’s no need, the sight of her tear-stained face knocks the breath from him. Clarke hastens to wipe her eyes on her sleeve, trying to push him back around at the same time, but there’s no way in hell he’s turning his back on her now.

His arms close around her like a vise, drawing her fully into the cradle of his knees on the mat. She shudders and quakes in his grip, her breath coming in short gasps as the wetness from her cheeks soaks into his skin. 

“I thought I was being strong,” she whispers. “I thought- I thought I was doing what was necessary. And then Lincoln came back without you and I- I-”

She cuts off with a strangled sob.

Bellamy holds her more tightly, not caring how his fingertips might be carving an impression into her flesh. “I’m right here, Clarke. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But you could have-”

“I didn’t,” he interrupts firmly. “I didn’t, and I’m going to be fine. I’ve got the best doctor on the planet looking out for me, right?”

She hiccups, squeezing him back in reply.

Bellamy ducks his head so he can speak directly into her ear. “Soon I’ll be ordering everyone around and arguing with Byrne again and driving you crazy, just like before.”

Clarke’s breath escapes in a quick huff, and he hopes he isn’t imagining the tiny curve of her lips against his skin.

Her voice is very small when she says, “Promise?”

“I promise.”

They hold each other for a long time. Eventually her breath comes in slower gulps, but she makes no move to let go. He wouldn’t have let her even if she’d tried.

Eventually he eases down to lie on the mat, pulling her with him. At first he thinks she’ll resist, and when she begins to move he’s torn between giving her space and keeping her close. But Clarke only shifts her head so it’s not lying on his injured shoulder before tucking herself more firmly against his side. He tangles a hand in her long hair and takes a deep breath.

It’s one of the best nights of sleep he’s ever had on earth.

~~~~~~~~~

They continue that way in the weeks he spends recovering. Neither of them says it out loud, but he lies awake at night until Clarke slips in next to him. They don’t always start out the night pressed together, but in the mornings Bellamy always wakes to her limbs tangled with his.

He never wants it to end.

The nightmares are unpredictable. Just when he’s counted almost a week without them, they return with a vengeance that leaves him gasping and sweating in the darkness of the tent.

Clarke is always there. It’s her blue eyes that he looks for first, inhaling the familiar scent of grass and rain that he’s come to associate with her. It reminds him that the nightmares are just that - a thing of the past.

After one particularly bad night, Bellamy awakes early the next morning to see her worriedly examining his shoulder. “What is it?” He twists, trying to angle his head so he can see what she’s looking at. Clarke doesn’t answer, only tracing the bumpy skin. Her throat bobs as she swallows, and he finally notices the light flush on her cheeks. Her eyes won’t lift to his.

She’s nervous.

He sits up and reaches back with his other hand, tracing the grooves in his skin until he finally understands. It’s a bite mark.

“You wouldn’t wake up,” she mumbles, and that familiar crease in her forehead has returned. He leans closer and catches her hand in his.

“Never took you for a biter, princess,” he teases gently.

Her eyes fly up, startled. Then her blush deepens. And even though she shoves him away, he’s laughing, and he thinks she might be, too.

But it doesn’t escape his attention that Clarke’s nightmares are just as frequent and messy as his own. They’re not just about Finn, though those are more common right now. But every so often she’ll be mumbling the names of everyone they’ve lost so far, names he knows all too well because they haunt him just the same.

And every time she tries to shift away after waking up in tears, he simply pulls her back until her breathing evens out and she curls closer.

They aren’t simply co-leaders or friends anymore. He knows it, and she knows it, and for the moment that’s enough. 

~~~~~~~~~

His strength is slow to return. It ebbs and flows like the tide, alternately making him feel like he might run a marathon or simply buckle on the spot. 

It’s exhausting, but Bellamy is determined. And he has help.

Slowly, he can stand for longer periods of time without becoming dizzy. A walk no longer feels like a sprint to his lungs. He eats, more than his share of rations at first, when his weak protests are overridden by several threats to be force fed.

(Most are from Clarke, though he suspects the others might try it if she tells them to.)

The first few days, she’s by his side constantly. After that he manages to usher her off when his sister or Miller or even Monty come by to chat. He even catches Lincoln standing in the distance. He's never close enough to speak, but he remains there long after the others leave. Bellamy gets the feeling they’ve all agreed to take shifts to watch him, but doesn’t argue. There’s something to be said for having his friends back, even if they do insist on treating him a little too delicately at times.

Murphy is around, too. They don’t speak much, simply existing in a strange, unified silence. Bellamy is alternately ashamed and grateful for it.

On the days he’s unable to move as much as he would like, he settles for watching Clarke. She's everywhere, managing to take care of their people while simultaneously continuing to nourish their relationship with the Grounders. It would amaze him, except he's become used to her surpassing all expectations by now. 

There’s a deep divide growing between the kids and the adults, though. Bellamy knows it as well as she does. And despite the grudging respect building amongst the Arkers, he’s not sure it will be enough to maintain the already threadbare bond.

But Clarke is more determined than ever to sustain some sort of life for all of them on this planet. She’ll drag every single one of them by the skin of her teeth if she has to. 

Once, she looked up to Lexa as an example of how to be strong in the face of darkness. But Bellamy could have told her that she only needed to look to herself.

Thankfully, it seems she’s realized that on her own.

She’s not the girl who sent him away with ice in her heart. This is the Clarke he remembers, impassioned and concerned and stubborn as hell. And though she still holds part of herself back, he understands why. Doing the right thing will never be without consequences. The burden will be hers to carry for a long time. 

But she has him, too, and he’s not going anywhere. He refuses to let either of them run from things; there’s nothing left but to tackle the fear head on. Bellamy is certain they can get through whatever lies ahead as long as Clarke never loses sight of what got them this far in the first place: her heart.

He’ll be right next to her, making sure she never forgets.


End file.
